The Dark of the Year (9th in the Vicksburg series)
by PollyVictorian
Summary: A brief spell in camp and some hard thinking for Scott.


"Blast!" Corporal Tice McRae swore as the sewing needle jabbed his finger. "This thing's sharp!"  
>"It's supposed to be," Corporal Scott Lancer managed to speak in a serious tone while grinning unsympathetically. "It's made that way, so it will go through the material."<br>"I never knew you were such an expert on metalwork, Scott," Tice matched his friend's tone of irony.  
>"I should be. My ancestors were bladesmiths back in England."<br>"Yeah? Was that the Garretts or the Lancers?"  
>"Garrett. I don't know anything about the Lancers." He quickly changed the subject. "Why don't you ask Mrs Balfour to sew those on for you? She wouldn't mind."<br>"I know she wouldn't, but I don't want to bother her when she's got so much work at the hospital. It's incredible, so many men down with measles, of all things!"  
>"That's how it goes. Measles is one of those things that spreads like wildfire. My school closed down completely once because of a measles epidemic."<br>"Did you catch it then?"  
>"Yes. I was miserable about it at the time, but I'm glad now."<br>"I guess you would be. There – finished it. How does it look?" Tice held up the jacket with the newly sewn on corporal's stripes.  
>"It looks good, Tice," Scott said. He didn't mean the sewing. That was, well, no better than his own would have been. But it pleased him more than he could say to see the extra stripe on his friend's sleeve.<p>

"You about to try using one of those sharp needles yourself?" Tice asked, pointing to the articles of clothing in Scott's hand.  
>"No, I don't think these can be mended," Scott answered, with a rueful look at the army issue socks he'd decided not to bother putting on. The hundred and fifty or so miles the 83rd Indiana had marched, from Memphis to the Tallahatchie River then back to Memphis, had taken their toll on the military hosiery and the gaping holes in the socks had counterparts in the blisters on Scott's feet.<br>"My ma has a way of mending socks. She uses a sort of wooden mushroom thing. I don't remember how she does it, though. I never took much notice."  
>"Your socks seem to be still intact. Did your mother make them for you?" Scott asked.<br>"Yes, she makes them extra thick around the heel so they last. Those army ones are way thinner than hers," said Tice.  
>"Maybe I can buy some new ones from the sutler," Scott said. Then he laughed. "Although most likely the sutlers get their goods from the same factory as the army."<p>

"Corporal Lancer, Corporal McRae," Dan Cassidy was smiling as he gave Tice his new title. He also was pleased that Tice had been promoted. McRae was a good soldier and had proved his worth in that scrap with the Rebel sniper down on the Tallahatchie. Sergeant Cassidy realized the value of having good men under him. Now he said, "The wagons have brought mail in. Let's get it distributed."  
>Scott and Tice followed Dan to the company headquarters where stacks of letters and boxes were piled. Word had gotten around and the men of Company L were milling in front of the tent.<p>

"Here's one for you, Scott." Dan passed a letter to him. Scott heart jumped as he scanned the envelope. It was postmarked Boston and addressed in his grandfather's handwriting. He fought down the urge to tear it open – his duty came first. Once he'd finished here, he'd have time to read the letter. He put it in his pocket and went on passing out envelopes and boxes. It would be better to read it in private, anyway, he told himself.

"Corporal Lancer, take the mail for the men on sick list over to the hospital," Sergeant Cassidy ordered.  
>"Yes, sir," Scott replied and made to gather up the letters that had been put in a separate pile but Tice interrupted him.<br>"I can take them, Sergeant. I want to visit Cal anyway and there's a box for him from home."  
>"Have you had measles, Corporal McRae?"<br>"Well, no, but…"  
>"Then stay away from the hospital. Corporal Lancer will give the box to Private Stewart. I know you're concerned about Cal," he added, switching from officer to friend, "but it won't cheer him up any to have you in the next bed, as sick as him."<br>"Guess you're right," Tice agreed. "I just feel like I should be with him when he's sick, my own kin."  
>"Feelings have to give way to good sense when it come to sickness, Tice," Scott said, "and we don't want anyone else catching this thing. Between the men fallen sick and the ones detailed to hospital duty to look after them, the company's down to less than half strength."<br>"Not enough men even to make it worth while appointing company cooks," added Dan. His comment brought the desired grin to Tice's face.  
>"There's that advantage," he said, "and talking about food, there's bound to be some grub in Cal's box. A taste of his ma's cooking will probably do him more good than any amount of conversation with me."<br>"You got a box too, didn't you, Tice?" asked Scott.  
>"Sure did. I'll have it open by the time you get back and we'll have something tastier than hardtack with our dinner."<p>

Scott made his way to the hospital tents. His own letter was burning a hole in his pocket but he didn't resent the extra delay. He knew what mail from home would mean to the men laid low in this camp epidemic. It would be a better tonic than anything Dr Vincent could prescribe.

Mrs Balfour met him at the entrance to the main tent. He touched his cap.  
>"Mail for the men, ma'am," he said, handing her the bundle of letters, "and there's a box from home for Private Stewart. I'd like to give it to him myself, if I may."<br>"Have you had measles, Corporal Lancer?" she asked.  
>"Yes, ma'am."<br>"Go along, then. Private Stewart is at the far end, on the left. Private Hardy is with him."

Scott walked the length of the hospital tent, exchanging greetings with men from Company L who were lying in the close packed beds. He came to where Cal lay, Rick Hardy sitting on an empty wooden crate beside him. One of the few enlisted men of the regiment who had had measles as a youngster, Rick had been assigned as a hospital orderly for the duration of the outbreak. He was bathing Cal's face with a damp flannel as Scott approached.  
>"Box from home for you, Cal," said Scott, setting the package down beside the bed. Cal turned his head on the pillow. His face was flushed with fever but he smiled as his eyes focussed on the box.<br>"From home. Thanks, Scott. There'll be lots of good stuff in there, I reckon. We'll be able to have a party, Rick." He tried to manage a laugh but Scott could see that even conversation was an effort.  
>"Say, Scott, how's Tice?" Cal went on anxiously. "He's never had measles. He isn't getting sick, is he?"<br>"No, he's fine," Scott assured him. "He wanted to come and see you but Dan hog-tied him with army regulations."  
>"Good. Don't let him come; I don't want him getting this."<br>"Hey, Rick!" The call came from a little further along the line of beds, where the Lewis brothers were lying. "Get us some more water, will you? And how about going over to the sutler's, see if he's got any lemons, maybe make us some lemonade."  
>"Sure, Jed, I'll go right away," Rick answered. He turned to Cal. "I'll be back in a few minutes and I'll get that box open for you," he said, squeezing his friend's hand as he rose. Cal nodded and closed his eyes.<p>

Scott walked with Rick out of the hospital.  
>"Don't let Jed and Joe impose on you," he said to the little private. "There's enough for you to do, without running extra errands for them."<br>"I'm glad I'm able to help take care of them, and Cal too," said Rick.  
>"How did you come to have measles but Jed and Joe didn't?" Scott asked.<br>"Oh, I caught it while I was in the orphanage, before I went to the Lewises. I guess it shows there's some good in everything, even being in an orphanage."  
>"I'll let Tice know you're taking good care of Cal; he'll be relieved," Scott said.<br>"It's no trouble to take care of Cal," said Rick. "He's the best friend I've ever had."

After leaving the hospital tent, Scott didn't go straight back to Company L's street. He had some time yet before dinner; it was a chance to read his grandfather's letter. He found a quiet spot near the edge of the camp and opened the envelope. His heart was pounding as he unfolded the sheet of paper.

"My dear Grandson,  
>I need hardly tell you, Scotty, how much you have grieved and disappointed me by your heedless act of disobedience. Such wilful defiance is something I would never have expected. I looked for better things from my only grandson.<br>I am not without hope that by now you have realized the foolishness of your action and are ready to come home. A discharge can be procured without difficulty, I am sure. I have sufficient influence with several people in the War Department to organize your return.  
>Should you, on the other hand, decide to persist in the course you have chosen, I will arrange for you to receive a commission in a more suitable regiment. The idea of my grandson serving as a private in an obscure Western brigade is, of course, utterly untenable. I observe that you have chosen to enlist under the name of Lancer and I am thankful that you have not disgraced the Garrett name, at least. It will also make it easier to keep your escapade from becoming general knowledge among our acquaintances. I have given it out that you are paying a visit to the Galbraiths in St Louis and have apprised Chester Galbraith of the true state of affairs as, being closer, he will be in a better position than I to render you assistance should you need it at any time.<br>I pray that thus far you are well and unharmed and will await your reply to this letter, further to taking the appropriate steps.  
>Your affectionate grandfather,<br>Harlan Garrett."

Scott's surge of relief as he first scanned the letter gave way to a feeling of perplexity as he read through it. Thankful as he was that his grandfather had accepted his enlistment at least to the point where he wouldn't force Scott to return home, the options Harlan Garrett presented left him in a quandary.

Leaving the army was out of the question, of course. He had given his pledge to his country and would stand by it. He would despise himself for the rest of his life if he did otherwise.

It was the other possibility offered by his grandfather that troubled him. A few months ago he would not have questioned the idea of a commission obtained through his grandfather's influence. It would have seemed a normal way to proceed and he would have welcomed the opportunity. Now, he found his outlook had changed. He doubted his grandfather would be impressed with his rank of corporal but for Scott, it was a mark of regard and trust from his commanding officers. A commission bestowed as a favor to his grandfather would be hollow in comparison. Yet wouldn't it be the wisest thing to go along with the proposal and keep his grandfather's good will? He knew how deeply he had hurt his grandfather – shouldn't he do all he could to lessen that hurt, within the bounds of his duty? He would have to think long and hard before answering Harlan Garrett's letter.

Tice looked up from the frying pan he was tending as Scott returned.  
>"How's Cal?" he asked.<br>"He's still covered in spots but that box from home cheered him up," Scott answered. "He's almost as worried about you as you are about him. Said he didn't want you visiting him and catching measles yourself. Rick's taking special care of him so try not to fret. He'll be up and about soon. Hmm, something smells good there," he added, inhaling the aroma rising from the frying pan.  
>"That's home-cured ham and there's cheese to go with it. And jumbles for dessert. My ma's done well by us with that box. Oh, and this is for you, from Lottie." Tice grinned as he handed Scott a small package. "She was real worried about you not having a sister to send you things. I think she's adopted you as an extra brother."<br>"I'd consider that an honor," Scott said as he unwrapped the package to disclose a pair of hand-knitted socks. Tice burst out laughing.  
>"She's a mind-reader, our kid sister! You'll be alright for the next stint of marching now, anyway. Lottie's a good knitter. Hey, this ham's ready. Come on, dig in."<p>

Tice dropped the generous slices of ham onto Scott's plate and added a wedge of the home-made cheese. A feeling of gratitude came over Scott and not just for the food. A friend who shared the good things from home without a thought, a little girl who took care of him like a sister because he had no sister of his own – his grandfather might be ashamed to have Boston society know that Scott Garrett had enlisted in the 83rd Indiana but this "obscure, unsuitable" regiment had given Scott Lancer some precious gifts.

LLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

What a miserable way to die, thought Scott as Cal Stewart's coffin was lowered into the ground. To sign up to fight for your country then die of measles in an overcrowded hospital tent. It seemed such a stupid waste.

There were only a handful of mourners at the graveside: Tice, Scott, Rick, Dan, Sergeant Stevenson, Mrs Balfour. Cal had only been a private, and he was not the first soldier to die of the disease. His was one of a row of graves that had been dug in the last week. There was room for more and there probably would be.

The funeral service over, they all went back to their duties. There was work to be done; the regiment had received marching orders and would be pulling out of camp the next day. Scott and Tice were silent as they walked back to the company street. Scott could think of nothing to say. The formal condolences of good Boston society would sound absurd. He was annoyed with himself. He had been brought up as a gentleman and trained, supposedly, to handle every social situation. Why couldn't he reach out to ease the sadness of someone who had become his closest friend? The two corporals set about their work, Scott's heart aching for his friend's grief but his mind finding no words that could offer comfort.

As they were preparing their supper, Rick came over to them and handed a bundle to Tice.  
>"It's Cal's things, that he had with him in the hospital," he explained. "The presents he got from home in that last box the other day, mostly. He gave the food to Mrs Balfour to share around but there were other things, warm clothes his ma made for him…" Rick's voice choked.<br>"Mrs Balfour said you were with him at the end," said Tice. Rick nodded.  
>"Yes. He was unconscious; he just slipped away."<br>Tice handed the bundle back to his cousin's friend.  
>"These are yours, Rick. Cal would have wanted you to have them."<p>

Scott was the outsider for the moment, standing apart from the two who were mourning someone they'd both loved. He'd had no like experience of his own, no loss of anyone close to him – he'd never known the mother who had died a few hours after his birth. There were friends he had lost: one or two schoolmates and in the short time he'd been in the army, a chilling number of comrades like Cal, but never anyone who had a place in his heart.

When the bugle sounded tattoo, Scott knew it was his last chance. He had to say something now; tomorrow any display of sympathy would seem delayed and out of place.  
>"Tice…" he began, willing himself to say the right thing. But all that came out was, "I'm sorry."<br>The words sounded pathetic, inadequate. It was what he had already said that morning, when Mrs Balfour brought them the news, and he cursed himself for not being able to find something more.  
>Yet perhaps it had been the right thing after all, thought Scott, as Tice gazed at the wall of the shelter tent for a moment as if seeing something beyond it, then started to speak.<br>"Cal and I grew up together. His pa's farm is next to ours. We were in and out of each other's houses, started school the same day. Our mothers would buy a bolt of cloth together and make our clothes from the same pattern, so often as not we were dressed alike." He paused. "It's strange to think someone you've always known just won't be there any more."

Taps blew for lights out. Tice extinguished their candle and all was still in the shelter tent except for the shaking Scott felt against his back as his tentmate silently cried.


End file.
